Vector
by pariahpirate
Summary: There are no 'what if's or 'could have's. The future can't be changed- all we can do is walk our unlit paths until we die. That is the meaning of life.
1. Winding Staircase

Vector

There are no 'what if's or 'could have's. The future can't be changed- all we can do is walk our unlit paths until we die. That is the meaning of life.

**Shall we?**

A 'vector' is a straight line segment whose length is magnitude and whose orientation in space is direction. That meant it was an 'arrow', right?

Mutti didn't care about my question. I don't even think she heard half of what I said. She was too busy scrubbing the big soup pot. She looked frustrated and annoyed by my presence. I took a cautious step back.

"Edward, 'Liebling'," Her voice dripped heavy with sickeningly sweet _venom,_ "Leave Mutti alone right now. She is not very pleased with you." I winced. She was angry at me. For what? I don't think I did anything . . . I hesitantly asked, meek eyes cast upwards to the tall, foreboding woman who was my Mutter.

"What did I do wrong, Mutti?"

The pot was dropped in the sink, causing quite a clattering racket. Mutter spun around with Hell burning in her perfect blue eyes. "What did you do wrong?" She roared like a lioness from one of my storybooks, "What did you do wrong?" I trembled in fear. She grabbed a handful of my hair (ugly, horrible brown hair, a curse from who-knows-where she'd often tell me), and shook me roughly, yelling obscenities all the while. I whimpered; she released her grip to slap me.

"You dirty, useless child- you did it again!" She screeched like the bats who used to live in our attic (I missed their company). With a horribly sense of shame, I knew _exactly_ what she spoke of, and I knew exactly what was expected of me. I morosely trudged, with Mutter behind me every step of the way, to the small hall closet. She unlocked it, and obediently I stepped inside. She closed and locked the door. I sniffled.

Marcella skipped merrily by, her pretty flaxen hair dancing in a braid behind her. She stopped to backtrack, and stood before my closet. Malicious blue eyes alight, she pointed and ridiculed me with all the untamed cruelty of a child.

_Nothing on earth is crueler than a mean-spirited child._

"Did Little Eddy wet the bed again?" She cooed with sadistic glee, "What a pathetic baby!" "Marcella- please. Your little brother is being punished." Mutter's voice floated over to us, sounding ever so tired. But it wouldn't stop Marcella. It never did. And she would always get away with it. Always.

_They say Madness and Intelligence are closely intertwined. If this is true, Madness and Creativity are closer still._

I curled up into a ball in the little Edward-sized space I had dug in the closet's clutter. No one ever went in it but me. I shut my eyes and ears, blocking Marcella's taunts out, and filling my mind with fairytales and fantasies. Lies, lies about how I was a Changeling, and my real family was looking for me, or how I was stolen at birth from various places, or how I was being punished for the various rebellions against the gods in my past lives. The little stories I made up were all I had.

But they didn't save me that night. Marcella was trying too hard. "Do you need a diaper, little baby? Huh? What is it- the fifth time this week? Keep it up, and you'll turn your sheets yellow!"

I began to cry.

I was four.

_The Macdonald Triad, sign 1: Bedwetting_

I liked being outside. I loved it. Even though it was always raining when I was allowed out, and Mutter wouldn't let me in until I was dry (which meant I had to stay outside till the rain stopped).

I found a dead lizard once- squished by a shoe (probably Vati's). I poked it a lot. Its insides were squishy and reddish-brownish-blackish-yellow. I loved it. I tore through the bushes looking for more dead bodies. I found a few more lizards, a crushed snail, and a half-eaten squirrel. I wanted to see their insides, everything! - but I couldn't. I needed something sharp to open them up, and I didn't have anything sharp.

The next time it rained, I borrowed Vati's special Wehrmacht knife. He probably wouldn't mind- he was sleeping with his Bier. Like always. I didn't find anything dead. I was really disappointed.

But I did find a baby birdy with only one wing. I think it fell from its nest and a fox got to it. I named it Patient I and I became Doctor Edward Richtofen. The sound of the pretend title, as it rolled off my tongue, sent golden warmth throughout my body. That rainy day I learned a bit about anatomy. Patient I was only the beginning.

_The Macdonald Triad, sign 2: Animal Cruelty_

Sometimes Mutter isn't home. She's busy with her own special job- for extra money when Vati looses another job. She leaves for hours, sometimes even days, and during that time, Vati is in charge.

Vati almost never bothers to acknowledge me. Only when grades come back from school does he look at me. Marcella, with her typical C's and rare B's, gets an unfocused pat on the head. Edward, with his perfect A's, gets a glance in his direction if he's lucky.

When Vati drinks his Bier, he becomes very angry. It scares Marcella, whom he'd never touch. It scares me, whom he'd happily beat sober. If I misbehave, Vati hits me- sometimes with his Bier bottle that makes my head spin and makes me want to throw-up. Then he throws me in the attic.

But that's ok.

I found some old boxes filled with matches up there. There's also a trunk, and there's always a leaky pipe somewhere. I know how to build the perfect fire- one that's tame enough to keep alive, but one strong enough to keep me warm (it's cold up there!).

Sometimes I find papers, old photographs and books. I sacrifice them to the Fire Gods and dance, laugh, and smile as I watch them curl and blacken in the licking flames.

_The Macdonald Triad, sign 3: Pyromania_

In school, I was quiet. Teacher tried many times to get me to 'make friends' with the other students- but why would they care about me? Little Edward, Creepy Edward- Know-it-All-Bedwetter. I just stayed in my corner at reccess, watching the other children play, idly doodling on scrap paper.

Once Teacher walked by, no doubt going to force me to go and play with all the other six-year-olds outside, but she stopped before my desk. I quaked beneath her, afraid.

_The fear of disapproval makes one strike to be a good person. _

"Why Edward," She murmured kindly, smiling gently, "This is beautiful! It's a very pretty picture." I just stared at the pretty blonde woman, trepidation raging through my skinny form. "It's p-pretty?" I stuttered, still frightened. 'Kindness' was foreign to me. It was something I had never known as a child, something, actually, I have only recently learned of. It's . . . shameful . . . and sad. I didn't know then, how to react to 'kindness'. It was something I didn't know how to deal with.

"Would you mind if I hung it up?" My eyes widened. Hang it up? T-that was something that was only done to Marcella's artwork! She- she was the favourite child . . . I shook my head no. It was just a worthless doodle of a winding staircase. Nothing more . . . Stupid really . . .

_The fear of being powerless gives on the motivation to seek out the power that lies in knowledge._

"Oh." Teacher sounded sad, as if I had disappointed her. I waited for the anger that had always fallowed disappointment. It never came. I didn't understand. She wasn't angry? No, no she had to be. She had to be!

Everything I knew . . . was it a lie?

The recess bell rang and all the children returned. The lesson began, and I silently observed everything. I knew if I learned and studied hard, I could become anything I wanted. While all the other children wanted to become fireman and ballerinas, I wanted to be a scientist. Teacher knew this, but she looked at me with eyes that pitied. Was there something wrong with me?

At the end of the school day she walked up to me as I was gathering my things. She handed me a note to give to my parents. I delivered it obediently. Mutti read the letter and she gave it to Vati. Vati read the letter. I was punished.

Severely.

What did I do wrong?

"I'm sorry!" I screamed as I felt kicks and sharp glass rain down upon me, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

_Fear is a driving force and a creator of order._

I cried. I was six. I was so very little. "You filthy, rotten little boy!" They roared, before throwing me into my closet. I stayed in the darkness for hours. It was dark and I was so lonely. The pain overwhelmed my senses. I couldn't find any strength to cast my mind into my fantasies. I sat in anguish with drying tears on my cheeks.

I spent so much time in the closet. I was so hungry.

I heard footsteps and voices pass the closet often. I knew better than to shout for help. Such an action would only hurt me. I cried more, and then the yelling came back. It came back louder and meaner in my head, and it wouldn't stop.

It hurt.

Was this my punishment?

What did I do?

"Hey Bed-wetter." My first glimpse of light in so long- Marcella, my older sister, in the open closet door, "Mutti says if you behave you can come out for a bit." Her nasty smile grew murderous, "But only a bit!" She shrieked with laughter. Timidly I left the confines of the closet. Marcella sneered. "You're such a baby! You're always so scared of everything! Maybe that's why you wet the bed?" She laughed loudly and sauntered off.

A baby? Scared of everything?

I WAS NOT! For the first time, I felt hot. Like my blood was boiling within my veins. I glared at the direction Marcella had gone, a painful frown etched on my face. An idea formed in my mind, and the screaming in my head became less angry, more . . . . enthusiastic. My frown faded, being slowly replaced by a smile. A giggle fell from my lips, followed by another, then another, until I could barely breath.

I stole into Marcella's room. It was a pretty room, a decent size, with selves of neatly arranged dolls. Porcelain dolls, ragdolls, baby dolls, lady dolls . . . more giggles fell from my lips.

From the shelves I picked out her favourite doll- Elise. Vati had bought Elise for Marcella. She adored it. It was an elegant doll, with a painted porcelain face and a lacy powder blue silk dress. My smile grew bigger. More laughter, louder laughter, escaped my lips.

Nothing I had ever drawn had ever looked as beautiful as the porcelain shards scattered on the floor.

_To disregard fear is to fall into Madness._


	2. R E W I N D

**Many people asked for me to continue, but I never really felt I should. **

**Well then I dreamt up something of a partner to 'Vector'. **

**Here it is – 'R E W I N D'**

**Some brief notes:**

**MacDonald's Triad- the three typical signs of a serial killer, in a nutshell.**

**And **_**yes**_**, Crayola crayons **_**did**_** exist during WWI. I checked.**

* * *

><p>A 'vector' is a straight line segment whose length is magnitude and whose orientation in space is direction. That meant it was an 'arrow', right?<p>

My mother wasn't listening to me or my question, staring blankly at the wall across from her favourite armchair, a wine bottle held lazily in her slack grip. She almost never spoke to me now, only when she really had to. It made her voice coarse and ugly with neglect. Her silence had long since ceased to scare me. It had been so long since I heard her speak in her old voice, her pretty, beautiful voice . . . a year, I think. What scared me now was her liquor intake. More, more, and more, until all that the hobo who lived off our trash got was empty wine bottles and half-drunken bottles of crappy whisky.

I had learned to cook, somewhat. I invited the hobo (his name was Charlie) to eat with us often. He smelt terrible, like the gutter and Mama's breath, but at least his hearty chortles and street-smart wisdom filled up the house's drowning silence. It was Charlie that taught me how to cook. It was Charlie that got Mama a job on the corner of Main and 5th Street that dressed her up fancy (even though she left for long periods of time and came back smelling of cigarette smoke, beer, and gasoline). I still got into fights, but I was better- the unstoppable force that my name implied.

A knock on the door tore me away from Mama and beckoned me to the door. I swung it open. An austere man in a police uniform stood on our front porch. "This Charlie . . . er . . ." He began, but I finished innocently, as only a child of eight could. "Charlie the Hobo lives here. . . so I guess he's not really much of a hobo, right?"

"Yes," The severe eyes of the policeman flitted left and right, "Right . . . well . . . is your mother home, young man?" "She's working." The lie left my lips smooth and easy, like breathing now. The policeman grunted, "Yes well . . . Charlie . . . he's dead. Er- Good day." And he left.

The door swung closed and I was left numb.

My father . . . _Daddy . . . _**dead**.

My mother . . . Mama . . . **drunken **_**whore.**_

My friend . . . Charlie . . . **dead.**

Numb and unfeeling, my legs carried me though the house out into the garden. I fell to my knees at the foot of the wise old oak that had been growing out there long before my birth. I gazed up with sorrow at the branches I had climbed so many times, to gaze down at Mama's happy, smiling face. And my gaze lowered to the ribbon and shiny gold medal nailed to the mighty tree's trunk. In Charlie's masterful carving, the wood above read: In loving memory of Robert M. Dempsey, lost, but never forgotten.

Sorrow-tortured screams filled the air as grief-induced rage transfigured my fingers into invincible claws that tore at the tree trunk and ripped the medal from its rusted nail. I held the one thing I had left of my father close to my heart, and in my grief I curled up around it, as the sky mimicked my eyes.

Oh how it poured that night.

_Stop_

'_Rewind'_

_Go back_

With sheepish hands I delivered the letter from Teacher to my mother. A heart-broken look shone clear as her eyes misted over, like they always did when I was caught fighting in the schoolyard. "Tank . . ." She sounded crestfallen- oh so disappointed, "This is the ninth time this month . . ." Shame chilled my body colder than winter's favourite December frost. "I-" I began, trying to explain what I had already explained so many times over. "No Tank." Her voice was unforgiving steel. I flinched, the foreign tone unnerving. "Go to your room. No dinner tonight." She ordered.

I listened. I obeyed.

She didn't speak to me for a week.

It nearly broke my heart.

I was seven.

_Stop_

'_R e w i n d'_

_Go back_

_back_

It started with a taunt. Just a simple, pathetic taunt. But it _hurt_, it hurt _really badly_.

"You're a failure- maybe that's why your daddy's dead! He musta been as stupid as you- prob'ly shot 'imself in the head, pointin' his gun in the wrong direction!" Stan leered, his height and girth looming over me like the punishment awaiting me at my home. My mouth fell slack. Words failed me. The emotions that roared through my blood mixed so intricately that I could barely find the strength to stand. A circle of faceless children had formed a barrio ring around us, their cruelly-tuned senses picking up the testosterone-laden scent of a fight. "Huh? Whata 'bout it? Ya think I'm right? I think so . . ." He laughed, the braying sound of a pure ass. I tensed like the diseased cat that lived just beyond out backyard fence, ready to strike with lean, coiled muscles. "Huh? Heh- poor idiot." He jeered with crooked teeth, "Prob'ly don't even know I'm 'sultin' 'im."

With one, good, solid punch, Stan was down in the dirt like the pig he was, clutching a freely-bleeding nose and howling like wolves to the moon for his 'Ma'.

His so-called friends stared at their ringleader, and then at me. My eyes narrowed with free malice and I clenched my bloodied fist tighter. "Whatcha 'fraid of, huh?" I sneered at his lackies, "I'm just a 'poor idiot', right?" Stan's obedient little slaves roared and charged. Adrenaline pounded in my ears- _punch, kick, hit, elbow, swipe, push, punch, jab, kick, kick, kick-_

"BOYS!"

The living shield of circled onlookers was not enough to shield a one-sided brawl, and Teacher had clearly seen. I was down and worse for wear, but I was certainly not _out._ Teacher tore me from the fight kicking and spitting. The hobo who lived of our scraps and trash would've been proud. "I'm so disappointed in you boys! Who-" "Tank started it! He started it Ma'am!" Stan and company tattled like crows, cawing loud and obnoxious. Stern eyes fell upon me, the gaze disappointed and cold, "Is that true Tank?" I met the judgmental gaze with grit and a glimmer of pride, "Yes Ma'am. I fought 'em all." "And why would you do that?" Teacher all-but-hissed. "They insulted my Dad."

A low wave of whispering rose and fell. Teacher drew back. "I'm writing your parents, and you will all give me lines." She frowned a tight-lip frown. Looking at me, she said, "Fighting will not be tolerated lightly." And she turned to my assaulters, "And speaking ill of the dead will send you to Hell."

"Now- to class! Recess is over!"

That was my first fight. There would be many more. Many more black eyes, many more bruises, many more wounds, many more fights. I couldn't help it- fighting became the one thing I _could_ do. The _one_ thing I could do right was fight, so I did.

Was that really so wrong?

_ Stop_

'_R E W I N D'_

_Go back_

_back_

_.b.a.c.k._

"You're stupid. All you get are D's and F's." "Huh- your daddy would be so ashamed of you!" "I bet if your pa wasn't in the War he'd come 'n beat ya for such bad marks!"

I only slid down further in my seat, a sickening feeling spreading like fire throughout my body. The flimsy paper that Teacher has slid upon my desk was condemning, with its cruel red 'D's and malicious 'F's. I wanted to cry.

David smirked at me, pushing his coke-bottle glasses further up on his nose. Looking down on me. There mere thought manage to rid me entirely of my sadness, replacing it with pure anger. Just because he thought he was _so_ smart- didn't mean he could look down on me! Mikey was kind enough to smile at me, but it was out of pity. No one in the class ever received as low marks as I did. It was one of those things you could be sure of- wet rain or hot fire.

I could be smart if I wanted to! I could! It's just- no one ever game a chance! No one understood . . .

_Stop_

'**r** E **w** I **n** D_'_

_Go back_

_back_

_.b.a.c.k._

_**{b a c k}**_

A knock sounded throughout the nearly empty house. It was a harsh rap, and it's simple sound sent spikes of fear down to the very core of my soul. I whimpered- I couldn't help it.

I was three.

Mama was in the kitchen, cooking something really yummy. I was sitting at the table, coloring clumsily with my crayons, like a good boy. It was Sunday, and I was still in my Sunday best's. Mama looked startled at the call to the door. Frowning, she placed her ladle down and left the stew to simmer on his stove throne that I could never touch. I followed, curious.

Two burly men stood at our doorway. One looked angry; his friend looked like a bull, like from my storybooks. The angry man asked to come in; the bull-man spotted me. "This his boy?" I heard Mama hold back a sob, and mutter a grief-filled "yes". Anger flooded my senses. How dare they? How dare such strange men march up to our porch, bang on our door, and then make Mama cry? She cried every night- I had heard her- wasn't that enough? I didn't know why she cried so much, but it had to be really bad . . . and I didn't want Mama to cry. I hated it when Mama cried- though she always denied ever crying, even if I caught her with fresh tears on her cheeks. I never pressed the issue. I didn't want to make Mama cry. Never ever.

"Ma'am-" The angry man addressed my mother sternly. I felt black bile rise up in my throat as I screamed within the quiet confines of my mind for the two oddly-dressed _monsters_ to _go away_. They didn't, but Mama made me. "Tank . . ." She had rasped, "Go to bed. It's late."

But what about dinner Mama?

"It's too late right now, and Mama is tired. Go to bed." She had said in her strictest voice. My chin met my chest as I muttered a "Yes Ma'am." and scuttled noisily up the stairs. I never entered my room, choosing, instead, to watch the unfolding drama from above- because it so wasn't late! It was still light out!

"Ma'am, I'm afraid you husband, Sergeant Robert-"

Mama screamed- a chilling, heartbreaking shriek of anguish to the heavens.

"-is _dead_."

Dead, dead, dead, dead, what did that mean? What does it mean to be 'dead'?

"Mama?" My voice broke the silence, sliced like a katana through my mother's torrential sobbing. A choking sound escaped her lips as puffy eyes, red, red eyes, looked up in horror at the toddler son spying on the one-sided conversation. "Tank!" A scream-scarred throat rasped.

"Mama? What's 'dead'?"

_**Stop**_

R E W I N D

_Go back_

_back_

_.b.a.c.k._

_**{b a c k}**_

_g o b a c k t o t h e b e g i n n i n g . . ._

"You're leaving. For the front . . . aren't you?" The woman accused with crystal tears in her eyes. Her husband grunted in affirmation. His wife let out a strangled sob and buried her angel face in her perfect hands. "Babe, I have to." "Yes," The woman spat venom, "For your country- for your brothers, for your_ family_. But what about your _son_? Is he going to grow up without a father?" The accusation burned like acid. "I have no choice, babe- I'm sorry."

"Is that what I'm going to tell him when I'm given a Widow's pension and some stupid medal?" Her husband was silent. "Well?" She was screaming now, as tears freely streamed down her cheeks, glistening waterfalls down smooth porcelain, "Answer me!" Her husband refused, instead lacing up his boots in silence. "Answer me! ROBERT!" The husband's eyes closed, his lips drawn in a grim line. He turned and ignoring his wife's protesting cries, his boots thumped up the stairs.

He arrived at a closed door at the top of the stairs. And that's when he allowed them to fall- his own salty tears. With just barely a hint of the strength the man possessed, he pushed the door open. It creaked softly, a cry for oiled hinges. Morose eyes followed the floorboards to the cradle beneath the window. Soft moonlight fell upon the ebony wood cradle, the cradle he had crafted himself. His heavy footsteps were too loud as he crossed the room to the moonlit cradle. A hand roughed by hardship and hard work brushed away his tears.

A baby slept peacefully in the ebony wood cradle. His baby. _His little boy. _He had his father's unruly blonde hair, just a small little feathery thatch right then, but he'd grow up to find only a buzz cut would suit that head of hair. The father, the soldier, choked up at his first memory of his son- _he had his mother's eyes_.

"Gracia . . ." His voice was husky and drowned with anguish as he addressed the silent livid woman he knew had followed his steps all the way to the foot of their child's bed. "Gracia- I promise I'll come back." His beloved wife said nothing in return. Robert M. Dempsey's spine curled as he bowed to kiss his newborn son good night.

"Good bye Tank."

_Stop_

_Press '**play**'_

* * *

><p><strong>So amigos~ How did you find chapter two? It's easy to see where I will go from here. Takeo's Chapter will probably be next, as his chapert is fairly easy.<strong>

**Nikolai's is significantly harder. :(**

**Review, da?**


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